Ragamuffin Angel (47 page)
They had had no word since the first communication to Art and Gladys stating that he was a prisoner of war. Connie knew other women who heard from internees, admittedly spasmodically, and it was clear the brief postcards were heavily censored, but from Dan there was just empty silence.
From Edith too there had been silence since the day they had received notification about Dan’s capture, and although in the early days, before he had been conscripted, John had taken to strolling along the pavements outside the shops at Holmeside several times a week, often pausing to look in the Bell’s Bakery Shop window for a moment or two, he had never ventured into the shop or spoken to Connie.
And now it was the 15th of November, 1918 – Victory Day – and the country had gone mad. Peace had fallen on a war-weary Britain, and all over the country there were unprecedented scenes of public revelry and rejoicing, like a giant school let out for the day.
The morning had begun quietly under sombre, granite skies, but at eleven o’clock precisely – when the armistice took effect – giant maroons were fired throughout the land, church bells began ringing, boy scouts cycled through villages and towns sounding the ‘all-clear’ on bugles and sirens, and the entire population – or so it seemed – rushed out on to the streets.
The factories closed, street lights were unmasked, blackout curtains ripped down and shop windows became ablaze with light. The rigid wartime licensing laws were ignored and the pubs packed until they ran out of beer, and all over the jubilant country street parties, with fireworks and dancing and hastily improvised flagpoles sporting flags of every Allied nation, were taking place.
Connie and her neighbours organised their own gathering in Holmeside. Long trestle tables, groaning with food and decorated with flags and potted plants, were brought out into the street. The men played their accordions and harmonicas and the excited children kept time by banging dustbin lids and anything else they could find that made a noise.
And Connie smiled and chatted and joked with the best of them. She fussed over Mary – now heavily pregnant and looking radiant – and she danced the evening away, even drinking a couple of glasses of Mr Bailey’s – the local butcher – homemade elderberry wine. But all the time her heart was heavy. She wondered if Dan was able to see the same night sky, and if, if he was still alive, what sort of state those monsters would have left him in? And Hazel, precious little Hazel, where was she this night? She would be four years old now. Four. And apart from one brief letter a month after he had first taken the child to Kent, she had heard nothing from Lucy’s husband in spite of repeated requests for news.
Would she ever hold her own baby in her arms? And then, in the next instant, she berated herself sternly. This wasn’t a night to be thinking such thoughts – it was an evening for celebration and rejoicing and living for the moment. That’s what it was.
Gladys had left the square’s get-together in the late afternoon and made her way to Holmeside with David and Catherine, and Connie felt comforted by the other woman’s presence and the fondness with which the fifteen-year-old Catherine and thirteen-year-old David greeted their ‘Aunt’ Connie.
All three of them, she knew, were thinking of the fourth member of their family, whose ultimate sacrifice – along with over three-quarters of a million men from Britain – had made it possible for them to sing the song of victory, and towards the end of the evening when David – who was the shining star of his church choir and the possessor of a pure, clear, perfectly toned voice – was called upon to perform, he reduced most of the women present to tears.
‘This is for my da,’ he said loudly, before giving a heart-rending rendition of ‘Till We Meet Again’, and then, as he sang the last note, he added, ‘And I want to finish with a quote by Siegfried Sassoon. In the war they called him Mad Jack because of his solitary expeditions into No Man’s Land, but he is a brave man and he’s the sort of poet my da would have understood. I like him.’ The last was a touch defiant – it wasn’t usual for a thirteen-year-old lad to confess to a liking for either poets or poetry.
He looked at them all, his eyes swimming with tears. ‘He went where my da died, and this is what he said. “I died in hell, (they called it Passchendaele)”. I shan’t forget my da.’
It effectively finished the evening for everyone.
Rationing was still biting hard as Christmas approached, and the black market was doing a roaring trade among those who could afford to buy.
The local economy had also been badly hit by the effect of the most lethal epidemic ever to hit Sunderland’s shores; that of the dreaded Spanish flu which had first reached Britain in September, and, as always, the poor had been affected the most.
So many men, women and children had died when the deadly strain of influenza was at its worst that the undertakers could not cope with the number of bodies. Hundreds were left for days in what had been their homes, and there were many instances – certainly in the East End and Monkwearmouth – of the dead actually lying in the same room with the living for seventy-two hours or more.
Schools had been used as temporary mortuaries, and joiners in shipyards and engine works had helped make coffins for Sunderland’s stricken community. It had devastated some families – especially those where the men were away fighting and mothers were caring for large numbers of children by themselves – but now, as the year limped towards its close, the northern people were gathering together as they always did when adversity hit. Some folk had taken to keeping rabbits or hens in the backyards during the war, and those fortunate enough to have small gardens had turned them into vegetable plots; consequently, as Christmas Eve approached, a great deal of bartering, as well as open-handed acts of generosity, went on.
There had been a number of families close to Holmeside that Connie had heard were in difficulties during October and November when the plague was at its height, and during those weeks Connie, accompanied by Wilf or one of Mary’s sisters-in-law, had delivered food parcels to the worst afflicted.
But now it was almost Christmas and, according to Gladys, Edith had sent out the usual imperious summons for the family to assemble at her house despite Gladys having made it plain she would not be reconsidering the decision made when Art was still alive; namely that Christmas Day would be spent in their own home. The last was stretching the truth a little; Gladys and the children had spent last Christmas at Connie’s, and they would be doing the same this year- along with Mary and Wilf, and Mary’s two sisters-in-law and their children. It made a party of thirteen in all, unless Mary’s baby decided to surprise them all and come early.
Christmas Eve dawned bright but bitterly cold, and by mid-day the sky had changed to one of heavy pewter, with the tangy smell of snow in the air. Connie had gone upstairs to the flat at lunchtime; she needed the afternoon to get things ready for her guests of the morrow. She had filled starched white pillowcases with gaily wrapped parcels for each of the children – including David and Catherine who still considered themselves young enough for such a treat – and had bought gifts for all the adults, and she had been cooking for days.
She was very fortunate. Connie stopped wrapping a thick fleecy dressing gown she had bought for Mary for when her friend would be getting up to feed the baby at night, and gazed about the bright and attractive room that was her parlour. All the furniture was of good quality and in a warm shade of deep mahogany, and the pale-blue rose brocade curtains, cherry-red square of carpet and chintz sofa and chairs were all new. The two bedrooms were furnished equally well, and the kitchen was well equipped and a joy to potter in. This was her own home, furthermore she had acquired her own business and now employed nine people – a cook, waiter and two kitchen helpers having been engaged in May to help Wilf who ran the restaurant at night. The business was going in leaps and bounds; she was one of Mr Bainbridge’s favoured clients, and she knew she would be able to clear the latest loan long before the period stipulated on the agreement.
Aye, she was very fortunate all right. Her mam and Larry and her granny would be tickled pink if they could see her now. She sighed deeply, gathering the folds of the dressing gown into her arms and burying her face in it for several moments. But she would give all this up like a shot and count it as gain if Dan was here. Dan, oh Dan, please don’t be dead . . . The pain she kept under wraps twenty-four hours a day surfaced briefly and she shut her eyes tight before opening them wide and staring across the room again. Enough of this –
he wasn’t dead
. She wouldn’t let him be dead, and if she didn’t let him he wouldn’t be. It was what her granny would have termed a heap of blather but it helped nevertheless. She took a deep breath, straightened her back and carried on wrapping the presents she had bought for everyone.
he wasn’t dead
. She wouldn’t let him be dead, and if she didn’t let him he wouldn’t be. It was what her granny would have termed a heap of blather but it helped nevertheless. She took a deep breath, straightened her back and carried on wrapping the presents she had bought for everyone.
Gladys and the children arrived at four in the afternoon – they were staying with Connie until the day after Boxing Day – and as soon as Dan’s sister-in-law walked in the flat Connie sensed an air of suppressed excitement about her. Gladys was carrying armfuls of presents, and David and Catherine were loaded down with a big cooked ham, a precious bag of sugar which had taken weeks of Gladys’s ration coupons, a huge slab of corned beef and some other groceries Gladys had insisted on bringing.
‘I told you you shouldn’t,’ Connie scolded gently as she took the offerings with a warm smile. ‘It’s lovely to have you and the bairns here. You didn’t need to bring anything.’
Gladys deposited her parcels on to the sofa and then she said, her voice throbbing slightly, ‘I’ve got an early Christmas box for you. Sit down in that chair, lass, and hold out your hands.’
‘An early Christmas box?’
‘Go on, Aunt Connie, go on.’ David and Catherine’s faces were bright. ‘Sit
down
.’
down
.’
‘All right, all right.’ Connie was laughing as she seated herself, duly shutting her eyes and holding out her hands. And then she felt a piece of paper placed in them and she opened her eyes to see it was a telegram.
‘It came this morning, lass.’
‘Gladys?’ Connie’s voice was a faint murmur.
‘Go on, lass. It’s all right.’
‘Oh, Gladys.’
Connie slowly lowered her eyes and for a moment the printed words swam and danced and then she read them. And she read them again, and again, before raising her swimming eyes to Gladys’s glowing countenance.
‘He’s coming home, lass, he’s coming home,’ said Gladys softly. ‘We don’t know the ins and outs; these official communications tell you nowt, but there it is in black an’ white. He’s alive an’ he’s coming home.’
And then, as Connie rose, the two women were hugging and crying, Catherine joining them a moment later and howling fit to burst. How long the mêlée would have continued is uncertain, but after a minute or two David’s voice was heard to say, ‘Women! I’ll never understand them as long as I live. You all oughta be laughing not crying,’ and the three parted, their faces wet, to look at the young lad at the side of them. And then they were laughing, one after the other, David included, and as Connie gathered them all close again she was thinking, Thank you, God, thank you. He’s coming home. I don’t care what condition he’s in, I’ll make him better.
He’s coming home
. Oh, this was the most wonderful Christmas ever.
He’s coming home
. Oh, this was the most wonderful Christmas ever.
Mary went into labour the Saturday after Christmas, the same momentous day that women voted for the first time in a United Kingdom election.
Connie stayed with the midwife throughout, and Mary’s short labour and easy birth was something of a healing for her. She hadn’t realised how seeing her sister stillborn and Lucy’s tragic confinement had affected her until this point, but she found it something of a revelation that Mary was able to smile and talk and exchange wisecracks with Mrs Drew, the very able midwife, right up until the last hour when the hard work really began.
‘It’s got to be a girl, Mary, coming on this day.’ It was two o’clock in the afternoon and the birth was imminent. ‘A brand new little suffragette.’
‘I don’t care what it is as long as it gets a move on.’
Ellen had joined them once she had finished her stint in the bakery, and now she smiled as she rubbed her daughter’s hand and said, ‘Ee, lass, you’re doin’ fine. You’re like me, you’ll have ’em as easy as shellin’ peas. One every year from now on, eh?’
The look Mary cast her mother spoke volumes.
Martha Ellen Gantry was born at half past two, and considering Mary’s slight build and small stature she was a big baby at seven pounds. She had a shock of brown hair and a loud and raucous cry, and the way Mary cradled her after the cord had been cut, and the love in her eyes, brought a lump to Connie’s throat. She was nothing like little Hazel, and in a way it was a relief. Connie had faced the fact that Harold Alridge had ruthlessly cut all ties with Sunderland and the past, and the fewer reminders she had to prod the ache in her heart for Lucy’s daughter the better. But she thought of her often; she always would.
And now it was four o’clock in the afternoon. Outside the house was a white frozen world – the snow was packed hard on the ground and more was forecast – but inside Mary and Wilf’s quarters above the shop there was warmth and comfort and the smell of the pot roast Connie had put on earlier.
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